


Sympathy For The Devil

by turnedherbrain



Category: Good Omens (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon, Angst, Canon Compliant, F/M, Humor, Mutual Pining, Slow Burn
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-08-30
Updated: 2019-08-30
Packaged: 2020-09-30 17:43:46
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 5,853
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20451047
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/turnedherbrain/pseuds/turnedherbrain
Summary: It’s your birthday and you’re spending it with the strangest, most wonderful friends you’ve got: the angelic Aziraphale and the devilish Crowley. While the birthday surprises have been kept under wraps, an undeniable attraction can’t stop surfacing…





	1. Daytime

The doorbell tinkles merrily as you walk in to the familiar smell of musty book dust and the sight of overfilled shelves. The shop isn’t open, of course. It hardly ever is. You have to be invited inside, or know the erratic opening hours which are subject to frequent change, rather like the British weather which is sunny one second, showery the next.

You hear a voice and duck around a set of tall bookshelves to find your friend Aziraphale, the bookstore owner, sitting at his rolltop desk, talking on his old-fashioned telephone. In this age of mobiles, he’s the only person you know who insists on conducting his conversations via a land line. As he chats, he smiles, his dimples showing, and waves you in further, mouthing ‘happy birthday!’ and miming _twenty seconds_ with his fingers to indicate how long he’s got left on the call.

Zira’s looking _absolutely_ _tip-top_, as he would say himself. He’s wearing a dusky pink suit accessorised with a pure white carnation in his buttonhole. His Edwardian-style ankle boots have tiny buttons all the way up the side and are polished to perfection. If you didn’t know him better, you’d think he had made an extra-special effort for your birthday, but really, this is how he dresses every day, except for the carnation which you’re sure is in your honour.

‘Darling.’ Aziraphale has finished his call and comes over to give you an enveloping hug, before sweeping you to the far corner of the shop where there’s a pile of exquisitely wrapped gifts. ‘Happy birthday to you!’

He waits in eager anticipation as you exclaim your thanks and guess what the presents could be. They’re all oblong-shaped. So – all books? Which is unsurprising, given you’re in a bookshop, and your friend’s a bookseller. Actually, he’s far less a book_seller_, more a book hoarder. His eyes light up with each book you unwrap and flick through, as he’s chosen very carefully. By the time you’ve uncovered the fifth volume, you’re feeling ridiculously spoilt and effusively embrace the delighted angel.

‘The surprises don’t stop with presents,’ pronounces Aziraphale when you finally let him go, his cheeks blushing a blend of strawberries and cream. ‘It’s too late for breakfast; too early for lunch, so we thought perhaps: a birthday brunch?’

‘_‘We?’ _Is Crowley coming after all?’ You try not to reveal your feelings, either way.

‘Yes,’ he nods, seeing beyond your blasé demeanour quite easily. ‘He was going to create some intricately complex roadworks with traffic jams that go on forever, but he decided this birthday jaunt sounded like too much fun.’

The idea of Crowley joining your celebration fills you with equal parts excited anticipation, equal parts dread. On a good day, Crowley is hugely entertaining company. On a bad day? He’s like a disillusioned _roué_, all barbed _bon mots_.

‘Hello,’ comes a voice from the back of the shop. Materialising as if risen from the catacombs appears the very person you’d been thinking of. He’s wearing a long black coat that skims his frame, a semi-unbuttoned shirt; skinny jeans and narrow boots, all in the same colour. His hair is slicked back but escaping onto his forehead. Plus those ever-present dark shades, probably the same model of Ray-Bans he’s worn since the 1960s, bought in bulk. Viewed as a whole, it’s as if the devil had a handsome younger brother with killer cheekbones who decided to take on human form. Oh, did you mention how attractive he is? _Fiendishly_ attractive.

‘Happy birthday,’ adds Crowley, sauntering past you with _that_ walk of his (gunslinging cowboy meets hip-swaying temptress). ‘Are you ready?’ He holds open the shop door expectantly. From behind, you hear the sound of gift wrap crumpling delicately as a low voice murmurs: ‘And a _‘good morning to you, Zira, my dear’_ would also be nice?’

‘But I don’t know where we’re going!’ you protest in excited anticipation, hoping Crowley will give something away. Unlikely, but...

‘We’re going out,’ he replies, deliberately noncommittal. ‘And good morning, _dearest _angel. For hell’s sake, come on! If you two stand around mouthing at me like landed seabass, we won’t make it there in time for lunch.’

‘Lunch? But I thought we’d agreed brunch?’ Zira pouts prettily, looking a tiny bit put out. ‘A rather nice brunch at the Ritz. They do champagne and blinis. All very tasteful.’

Crowley sighs. He’s practised this speech with his houseplants. ‘We go there all the time, angel. It’s Y/N’s birthday, so I thought: why don’t we treat ourselves? I’ve booked somewhere for lunch. Different. New. My treat. If I drive extra-fast, I can get us there on time.’

Aziraphale looks more than doubtful. It’s not that he’s a stickler for the tried-and-tested; there’s always room in his tummy for new cuisines. It’s more that Crowley’s approach to choosing restaurants is – how can he put it – _(heavenly Father, forgive me, but I’m going to think it)_ absolutely bloody awful to the point of insanely terribly bad. And his driving is absolutely bloody awful to the point of insanely terribly bad, if he’s driving at what the demon would call his _‘normal speed’_, which to humans is in excess of 100 miles per hour, so if Crowley is promising to drive _‘extra-fast’_ to get them there? Aziraphale guesstimates that they’ll break the sound barrier, and gulps. He raises his eyes to the heavens and…

‘Aaaa-nn-gel, what _are _you doing?’ Crowley’s leaning louchely against the wide-open shop door, having just growled at an interested customer to scare them away and suggested that they _‘go to hell’_ for their book purchases instead.

‘I’m praying we get there in one piece?’ admits Zira, lowering his gaze guiltily before linking his arm to yours lightly and trying to smile. While the angel shuts up shop, turning the sign firmly to ‘closed’, you watch as Crowley throws away the parking ticket that was marring the windscreen of the Bentley.

…

The pair spend most of their time on London’s inner ring road bickering good-naturedly, as they always do, while Zira tries to make himself comfortable in the Bentley’s leather passenger seat as he slides from corner to corner, Crowley dodging traffic wildly and swearing at cabbies. By the time you’ve reached the M25 motorway, Aziraphale has convinced himself you’ve gone the wrong way and politely suggests that Crowley purchases ‘a satellite navigation contraption’.

‘You mean a sat-nav? Please. I invented this road system. I designed it. I suggested its every tortuous turn and traffic blockage. To say I’m lost is preposterous.’

And they go on like this for another five minutes, while you sit in the back reading one of the books Zira bought you for your birthday. The first few chapters make ‘Fifty Shades of Grey’ seem like it was written by a nun at Sunday school. You’re only on page 25, and the main characters are doing that, and _that_. Oh, and **that**? With her, and him (and them)? And how?! Woah, not before lunch. Who knew that someone so angelic could be into this much unholy, glorious smut?

You look up to see Aziraphale is dusting an invisible speck of dirt off Crowley’s coat, while his friend is concentrating on driving along a particularly congested section of the M25. Zira is doing the brushing unconsciously and intimately, like a lover would. You sometimes regard them in their more unguarded moments and think: _Seriously, admit you love each other, you old marrieds._ Instead there’s this taut equilibrium where neither says exactly what they’re feeling, but it slips through in little gestures, like pretending to brush dust off one another.

Not that you dare to judge: you’re hiding your own unresolved longing, and you know that Zira knows, although you doubt that Crowley does. If he did: would he ever care for a mere mortal such as you? Does he care for anyone, apart from his angel?

After two hours of driving time, filled with loving bickering and (eventually) your choice of music, you arrive at your destination and spill thankfully from the car. Needless to say, you’ve been driven here ‘super-fast’. A human could have driven this distance in around four or five hours, but the Bentley has roared and rattled down the carriageways, breaking through the other traffic like it’s a racehorse thundering down the final strait.

‘Here’ is in the Brecon Beacons in Wales, where verdant pastureland is backed by steep hills and sloping valleys. And this place, according to Crowley, is where you will find the Garden of Eden.

Upon hearing this sacrilege, Aziraphale splutters: ‘You know that’s not the case, Crowley. We were there. I had my sword and everything. It’s nowhere near Wales.’

Crowley purrs soothingly, finding this misunderstanding quite amusing: ‘I’m speaking metaphorically, of course. It’s a restaurant called The Garden of Eden. Everything’s foraged. Wild food. All natural. No pesticides. No nasties. It’s got outstanding reviews on Trip Advisor. See?’ He points to the sign, which has miraculously (or should that be satanically) appeared above your heads. It shows Eve holding a pure, organic apple, while the evil snake is held at bay in the Tree of Knowledge nearby.

‘Hmmm.’ Zira considers this. Entering the Garden of Eden again, albeit a fake one, is… probably bad? He’s been on Earth for far too long, and he really doesn’t know any more. Morality has kind of blurred. Then he pictures a stern-looking Gabriel swimming into his mind, waggling his finger piously and warning: _‘Don’t give in to temptation, Aziraphale.’_ Startled by the vision, he looks over at you and observes your innocent pleasure at the idea of lunch in a beautiful garden with your two friends.

‘Did I mention that they make their own ice cream?’ adds Crowley temptingly. ‘The Times food critic called it _‘the most divine sundae you’ll ever taste’_.’

Zira is starting to be swayed, but decides to refer the decision to a higher power. ‘Would you like to stay, Y/N? After all, it’s your birthday and I think that it should be your choice.’

‘Absolutely, I love this place!’ you reply, already squinting at the menu board and the mouth-watering array of dishes. ‘Shall we go in?’

The three of you traipse under the entrance sign, Aziraphale regarding the coiled snake with a nervous backwards glance.

…

‘You shouldn’t be able to do that with a cherry stalk and your tongue.’

‘But I _did_…’

‘I ate four at once, they were sooo good…’

‘I ate seven!’

‘God, I’m full.’

‘Don’t thank god. Thank me!’

are a few snatches of conversation from the homeward car journey. For some reason, even though you’d spent far too long a lunchtime in The Garden of Eden and have hit the M25 at the exact peak of rush hour, the westbound loop is completely deserted. However, the radio traffic news is reporting an abnormally heavy load of vehicles moving towards the Dartford Tunnel on the eastbound side, causing a tremendous queue which might take until after midnight to clear.

As the reporter ends their doom-laden announcement, you catch Crowley’s triumphant expression in the rearview mirror. ‘Has that enormous traffic jam got anything to do with you?’

‘Me? No! Absolutely not! Humans love being stuck in traffic, don’t they?’ He twiddles with the frequency dial to silence the news report as he takes the motorway exit ramp at 150mph, swerving to avoid a lone biker in a black visored helmet and plain black leathers, who’s seemingly appeared from out of nowhere in the middle of the road. ‘Damn Death. Wish he wouldn’t keep cropping up like that.’

‘I do hope it’s a good soul destined for us,’ chirrups Aziraphale.

‘Or us. Help to keep the eternal flames stoked,’ counters Crowley, more to get on Zira’s nerves than because he really wants it.

‘I thought we were on the same side now?’

‘I’m not sure I know or care anymore. Do you?’

‘I’m on _your_ side.’ If the seatbelt would let him, Zira would have nestled much closer to his friend at this very moment.

‘I’m on yours too. So long as you’re not on heaven’s?’

‘Ah. In that case: can I get back to you?’

‘Coward.’

‘I most certainly am not! What about that time during the First World War? I knitted you socks in the trenches and when we had to go over the top you said I was the bravest angel you’d ever known…’

‘You’re the _only_ angel I’ve ever known…’

‘Umm… you two? I think we’re back?’ You cut into their squabbling before they start to make up (and possibly kiss), as they look out of the windscreen simultaneously and realise you’ve returned to the shop in record time. There’s a traffic warden loitering on the pavement, and Crowley gives him a glowering look before parking at a provocative angle over some double yellow lines. The parking attendant sees this and, instead of issuing yet another ticket, decides to run off as fast as he can.


	2. Evening

After some hours spent chatting, eating Victoria sponge (_‘the best kind of cake’_) and drinking endless tea on comfy armchairs in the shop, the door sign turned resolutely to ‘closed’, Zira coughs in the most dramatic way possible and nods to Crowley. ‘The thing? The other surprise? For later this evening?’

‘Honestly? I really didn’t expect anything else...!’ you start to protest, but Zira holds an index finger to your lips with a soft _‘shhhh’_.

Crowley retreats into the shadows at the back of the shop, and you suddenly realise why he was lurking there this morning – stowing something to be retrieved later; a joint gift from the two of them. When he reappears, he bestows an enormous gift box the size of a dining table-top at your feet, tied up with a vermilion silk bow.

‘Well, go on! Open it,’ he demands, standing over the box and inspecting non-existent dirt under his fingernails, as if already bored with the rigmarole of giving and receiving. Aziraphale, in complete contrast, is sitting on the very edge of his chair with unbridled excitement. ‘Yes, please do!’ he joins in, choosing to ignore Crowley’s surliness.

You settle on the rug to undo the ribbon, while Aziraphale nearly bounces off his seat and Crowley observes with apparent disdain. Then you raise the plain cardboard lid, and inside you discover a dress. It’s your favourite colour exactly, a perfection of a shade. Definitely your size, and your fit. The style isn’t from any era you could describe – it’s timeless. You lift it out. It feels weightless, the material shimmering and gossamer-thin. It wants to cling to you: belonging to you already as you sit there on the rug.

‘This is amazing. Thank you _so_ much, both of you!’ You gaze at Zira’s cheery face, then at Crowley’s who’s attempting to remain unmoved.

‘Try it on, try it on!’ Aziraphale claps his hands in glee. ‘I guarantee it will be _glorious_.’

You hurriedly gather up the dress, and then use one of the tall bookcases at the rear of the shop as a makeshift changing room. As soon as you tip the dress over your head, the folds fall into place. Every stitch, every part is made for you. You know that you’ll wear it and wear it, and tiptoe back into the main shop, giving an experimental twirl.

‘Well, regard this _demoiselle_!’ exclaims Aziraphale, tripping over like he’s dancing the gavotte and taking up both your hands to kiss them in turn. ‘Isn’t she beautiful, Crowley?’

‘Perfectly,’ mutters Crowley, glancing up from where he’s been brooding against a bookshelf, pretending to read a volume of botany. ‘Are we ready to go out again now? Your choice of nightclub, Y/N. Birthday privilege.’

‘Oh, really, must we?’ Zira lets go of your hands and touches his temples as if he’s got a headache coming on. ‘Let’s simply stay here and listen to some light opera on the gramophone instead.’

You and Crowley exchange _‘oh no’ _looks. Emergency ‘evacuate bookshop’ procedure is about to begin.

‘They serve vintage champagne at this club I know,’ you begin. ‘And I’d really like to show off my new dress?’

Aziraphale looks doubtful, but then you do another little twirl in your dress and he relents. ‘Oh, alright. So long as you get me home in the carriage by midnight. I like to be in bed with a cup of cocoa and a good book.’

Crowley closes his book decisively, then takes Zira’s arm. ‘C’mon angel. Then sooner we get there, the sooner we can have you back and snuggled up all toasty under your likkle duvet.’

…

Crowley knows the club you want to go to. He knows all the clubs in London, because he invented them. He tells you this as he surveys the crowds thronging the place, wall-to-wall humans in the dimness lit up by flashes of bright neon. You’re standing at the bar in your choice of venue, having just ordered a round of drinks.

‘… stupid dress code policies,’ Crowley’s saying, in the midst of holding forth. He’s wearing the same outfit from earlier today, minus the coat, but somehow it works better in a nightclub. ‘Too-loud music banging in your ears, so you have to shout even to be heard.’ His elbow is jogged by a bloke ordering six bottles of something dubious. ‘The bar’s stacked with people wanting to buy some ‘happy’ hour alcohol and the state of the loos is, believe me, worse than hell. And the dancefloor? Lino as sticky as one of the angel’s half-sucked sweeties…’

‘A vile comparison!’ interjects Aziraphale. He’s wearing his pink suit, having made a slight concession by undoing two of the three jacket buttons. He is clearly out of place in this shadowy world.

‘Anyway, my experiment failed,’ continues Crowley, talking extra-loudly so you can hear him over the thumping bass. ‘Humans took to ’em like ducks to a discotheque… I was even hauled up in front of Beelzebub, but I managed to talk my way out of it.’

‘He reiterated his many other accomplishments,’ beams Aziraphale, like a proud mother at a school prizegiving day.

‘You had a lucky escape,’ you whistle, as Crowley hands you a bottle of WKD (2 for 1 during happy hour).

‘Nope,’ grins Crowley, looking somewhat smug. ‘I was never really in any danger. I never am. Always have an escape route. Always have a backup plan.’ He leans against the bar and chinks your bottle against his with a certain satisfaction, the blue liquid glowing unnaturally under the neon lights.

Aziraphale raises one eyebrow, knowing the opposite is true, then peers down at his champagne and sniffs: ‘Are you quite sure this is a French vintage? I think they’ve served me prosecco.’

…

An hour later, you and Zira are sitting on a banquette seat with a good view of the dancefloor, where Crowley is moving his hips like a lively twiglet, 70s style, to Dua Lipa. It’s an incongruous mix, as he does the time-honoured thing of circling around rhythmically and pretending to point to everyone around him, before doing more hip gyrating. He stands out amongst the other dancers with his dark shades and distinctly different dance moves, like an ice cube in a fiery pit. If anyone dares to stare, he withers them with a simple point of his finger until there’s an invisible cordon around him, a circle of about two metres diameter which no other dancer can breach.

On the banquette, you’re sipping your drinks in companionable silence and gazing at the dancers, before resuming your conversation. More and more nowadays, if you and Aziraphale are left alone, you end up talking about your two favourite topics: books, and him. Crowley, that is.

‘He looks kind of silly,’ you comment, as you drink your dubious blue WKD.

‘He simply doesn’t care. Or, he really does. That’s his fault. He cares. Much too much,’ says Zira quietly, so you only hear it faintly over the electronica.

‘But he’s a demon. Demons don’t care. It’s not in their nature,’ you dispute, although you’ve had this argument with Aziraphale before, and he’s convinced you to search below the surface. 

‘I don’t think of him as a demon. He’s a fallen angel. Inside, he wants to be good. It’s buried under all the hellish doctrine they forced into him. I truly believe that,’ beams Zira, slipping his free hand into yours and giving it a reassuring squeeze. Then he lowers his voice even more, so you can hardly make it out. ‘Sometimes, we can’t help who we choose to love.’

You don’t speak for a while, but instead hold his hand, fixing your gaze on the dancefloor and thinking how this situation is excessively strange: an angel, a demon, and you. A veritable, unprecedented love triangle. And Zira is telling you it’s OK to feel what you’re feeling, because he knows what it feels like; albeit in a very heavenly way.

‘What am I going to do?’ you confide miserably. ‘A human and a demon – it can’t happen, can it?’ You toy with the label on your bottle of blue substance, wishing you could shrink and melt away inside.

‘_Pish posh_. I’m sure stranger things have occurred. Anyway, he’s an angel in disguise.’

‘But what about _you_? He ought to know…’ Since you’re admitting your feelings honestly, Zira really should be too.

‘Hmmm? Me? Don’t worry about me. I’ve had millennia to ponder where my affections lie, and how to sublimate them nicely.’ You turn to him and realise that Zira’s smile has faded, like a rose petal crumpling. ‘I love him too, of course. But he’s tremendously infuriating. I’d like to win him over to our side, eventually. And it’s purely non-physical. None of this…’ Zira nods at the bodies on the dancefloor, sliding together tantalisingly close. ‘I’d much rather read about s-e-x while I enjoy a lovely cup of cocoa. The real thing strikes me as rather… icky?’

You can’t help but laugh. ‘It varies. Sometimes it can be wonderful. The best thing ever; kind of like a high. Sometimes? Not so good. It depends on who you’re with. And as for reading about it… those books you gave me for my birthday: who knew, Zira, you naughty angel! Totally _filthy_ smut!’

Zira giggles as the prosecco bubbles pop at the rim of his glass. ‘I like to read them when I’m tucked up at bedtime. There’s a book dealer in Italy, Angelo – I’m aware of the delicious irony of _that _name – who keeps me supplied. But then,’ he lowers his voice even further, glancing around furtively as if Gabriel might apparate at any moment, before whispering into your ear, ‘I discovered something on the world wide web.’

You stifle another laugh. Zira is so last century. No – make that the eighteenth century. ‘Oh really? What?’

‘A website. It’s called,’ Aziraphale pulls a small notebook with a marbled cover from his breast pocket and flicks through the pages until he finds the note, scrunching up his eyes to read his handwriting in the dark. ‘Ayy – Ohh – Thrice. Yes, that’s it.’

You laugh and cover it up by taking another gulp of WKD. ‘You mean: AO3?’

‘That’s the one. Do you know it?’ Zira’s clasp on your hand intensifies as his joy mounts, finding that he can share his wonderful discovery with you. His eyes glaze over as he thinks of all the times he’s spent recently, scrolling through…

Crowley saunters across, having half-emptied the dancefloor due to his threatening demeanour and absurd moves. As he approaches, the opening bars to ‘Happy Birthday’ start to chorus. ‘I, umm, got the DJ to play your special song,’ he growls, addressing his remarks to the leather couch and definitely _not_ to you.

‘Thank you!’ You consider hugging him, but he’s got his hand on his hip, elbow thrust forward at a defensive angle. Zira’s let go of your hand now and is singing along and smiling beatifically, so that blissful response more than compensates for the both of them.


	3. Night-Time

Five minutes past midnight, and you’ve returned Aziraphale home like he’s a princess in a fairy tale. Crowley has dashed through the streets of London like they’re his own personal racing circuit, ignoring one-way signs, red lights and the surfeit of tourists at Piccadilly Circus.

You all clamber out of the Bentley quite shaken, apart from your driver. Zira kisses you on both cheeks and gives you the warmest of hugs. But before Crowley can bend his sinuous frame back into the cab, Zira stops him and says quite seriously, _sotto voce_. ‘Look after Y/N. You know what I mean.’

‘Don’t worry angel. I’ll get her home safely.’ Crowley nods, understanding the significance but leaving the true meaning unsaid.

After Aziraphale has crossed the road, waving merrily, you decide to skip after him, wanting to claim another hug before you leave: ‘Night night Zira. Thank you for making my birthday so very special.’

‘Here’s to many more birthday celebrations to come, my dear. Night night.’ He smiles at you angelically in the semi-darkness. ‘I do hope you enjoy the books. I find that they are _perfect_ bedtime reading.’ Then he peers across the road: ‘Crowley?’

‘What?’ comes the careless reply as the Bentley’s engine revs again.

‘Toodle pip!’

Crowley doesn’t answer. Either the engine noise is too loud, or he’s pretended not to hear.

…

Unlike any other demon, Crowley is true to his word, and returns you safely home. Although he doesn’t mention to Aziraphale that he plans on staying for some time. Or that he got you a little something extra for your birthday. Perhaps because he is embarrassed by this gift. Perhaps because to give something of his own is to admit he has – _cough_ – feelings – _cough_. But here you are, only half an hour later in your lamp-lit lounge, and he’s awkwardly holding something out like he wants you to take it quickly.

‘Here’s your present. It’s a little thing.’ He proffers a small cone no taller than a dessert spoon on his outstretched palm. It’s tightly wrapped in nondescript paper but with no sign of tape. Undoing the top, which seems to spring open at the merest touch, you discover a sprig of green shoots, three in total, nestled in a small pot. As you unwrap the parcel further, you realise it’s an offshoot from one of his house plants – a few of the things in the world he even pretends to (not) care for. As you hold up the pot to view it properly, the plant’s lustrous baby leaves seem to glow.

‘He’s only small,’ comments Crowley matter-of-factly.

‘It’s a boy? How do you know?’

‘I, umm, give them names. And stuff. But – call it what you like. Or not.’

‘He’s really lovely. I’ll have a think about what to call him.’ As you move to put the sapling on the mantelpiece, you catch him following the movement with something like… wistful fondness? No, it can’t be – he’s incapable of that emotion.

‘Oh, wait. There’s one other thing. I left it in the Bentley.’ He disappears off, then he’s back in the room before you’ve drawn breath, producing your final present with a flourish. ‘For the care of the plant.’

It’s one of those plastic sprayers you can get in any DIY store, only the trim is in your favourite colour. ‘If you spray the leaves from above, then the water’s dispersed all over,’ Crowley tells you, taking the spray gun and demonstrating the action.

‘Is that so?’ you tease.

‘Yes.’ He squirms and hands back the sprayer, caught out by talking about plant care, instead of appearing not to care.

‘Thank you.’ You don’t really know what else to say, so try to go in for a hug. He puts up his hands, palms held away from his chest like a resistant buffer stopping an incoming train. You step back and gabber awkwardly: ‘It’s one of my favourite presents, it’s so thoughtful. And I’ll remember to spray and talk to him daily, I promise.’

His hands drop, guard down. Was that a smile? Wow, it might have been. But then he’s back to pretending to be devilish, irresponsible Crowley, collapsing on the couch in a way that makes you think he’s here for the rest of the night. You wish.

As if he’s reading your mind, he asks: ‘What’s your birthday wish? Name it. Anything. I can do it.’ He’s showing off, thinking you’ll ask for something worthy of his abilities. Like turning your Thames tap water into exquisite 200-year-old cognac; or putting on a display of shooting stars that the heavens didn’t order.

You consider this. What do you really desire, above all else? Other than him, of course. ‘Take off your glasses. Please.’

‘_That’s _your wish? But that’s such a puny request, when you could have anything.’ He looks affronted. ‘Can’t you imagine something else? I could show you the furthest constellations in their starry splendour... and you want to see my eyes?’

‘Yes, I would. That’s my wish. Please?’

‘OK. Fine. But I’m warning you. You might not like me.’ He shrugs, fake nonchalant.

You’re half-mystified, half-afraid. ‘But I like you whatever. Why would your _eyes _put me off?’

Crowley removes his shades slowly, hanging his head like a penitent schoolboy so his lids are shadowed.

‘Please, show me.’

‘I’d rather not,’ comes the abject answer. The glasses are held in a fierce, close grip at his side.

‘Please?’ You walk to the couch and caress his cheek, the skin hot to touch, tipping up his face so that his resisting gaze meets yours.

‘I can make you forget that you ever saw...’ His expression is unyielding as your mouth makes an ‘o’ of astonishment.

Five seconds pass, a lapse of time so brief and yet it must seem to him as if the seconds stretch. You’re trying to think of what to say, because there’s amber and gold and flecks of fire and it’s like nothing you’ve ever seen; at least, like nothing on earth.

‘Your eyes are extraordinarily beautiful.’ And they are: strange; otherworldly; but beautiful.

‘You’re mistaken. The word you needed was _ugly_.’ He removes your fingertips from his cheek, the brief grasp burning, and slips the dark glasses back on in a gesture that silently begs _don’t ask me again_. Then he relents and only for a moment, the smooth surface breaks. ‘These eyes: they remind me of what I am; where I truly belong. And that I’m an outcast.’

‘You’re not an outcast. Perhaps millennia ago, for a single mistake! But now: how are you an outcast? You’ve got a home; here in London. With me, with Aziraphale. With your friends. You have things that you care for; people you care for – even though you won’t admit it.’

His mouth clamps closed and for once, he has no swift retort, which for him is highly unusual. Instead, his head turns to a shelf above your head. ‘Oh, look!’

Your head turns too, because you know he’s embarrassed by all the emotion on display and is deliberately distracting by doing one of his tricks. Sure enough, teetering on the edge of the shelf is a crystalline decanter filled with a dark swirl of liquid, a pair of glasses having appeared at the side. Firewater, you think. Very expensive firewater. You’re hazarding a guess that it’s over 200 years old, and he took it from the cellar of a French nobleman just before their chateau was raided by _sans-culottes_ shouting _vive_ _la r__é__volution. _

Crowley pirouettes to his feet and, before you ask, he pours you both an indecent slug. Then you drink. And drink. You’re not sure what you talk about, because you’re still trying to catch a glimpse behind the shades, but know him well enough not to ask again, and the hurt this might cause. The decanter level dips lower. And lower. The single lamp seems to glow less brightly and the clock tick-tocks until it’s 3am.

Now or never, you think, because you’re both lolling on the sofa and it’s the best possible time to ask. ‘Crowley. Do you ever…?’ You leave the rest unsaid, but there’s enough in your tone and your glance for it to be understood.

‘I’m trying to reform,’ he admits playfully, like it’s a pre-emptive confession. Long fingers twirl distractedly around the rim of his glass and his tongue flickers over his teeth; sharp white in the almost darkness.

‘Oh. Really? So you don’t...?’

‘What?’ He knows exactly what, but you’re playing a game.

‘**You **know...’ you shrug and smile, leaning forwards.

‘I’d love to, but I gave it up. Ages ago. More than ages ago, in fact. Bad for my health. Plus: a human and a demon? Having sex? Nothing good ever came of that.’ He _tsks-tsks_ like he’s reprimanding himself.

‘Oh, and you’d know?’ you enquire blankly, although you’re horribly intrigued, like a jealous girlfriend hearing about an ex.

‘Tried it. Terrible results. Really terrible. And I care… that is… I _like _you a teensy-weensy bit too much for any further experimentation. Oh. _‘Teensy-weensy’_? Did I just say that? I sound like Aziraphale. I have to stop consorting with that damned angel. There I go again. _‘Consorting’_. That’s something the heavenly brigade would say…’

You’re sitting there quite casually, so you don’t betray your real feelings. Rather like him, in fact. Whereas in truth, you’re singing and dancing inside then falling flat on your face. He’s admitted that he cares for you: which in Crowley’s world is like he’s shouted _‘I love you!!!’_ with a megaphone from the rooftops. In the self-same instant, he’s also warned you there’s slim chance in hell (or any other place) of anything physical happening. _Ah. F**k me. Or not._

Afterwards, you consider _why_ he’s avoiding potential intimacy, and realise: it’s not because he cares not a jot; it’s because he cares too much. Exactly as Zira said. But right now, you’re annoyed that you can no longer see his eyes, as he’s giving nothing else away. There must be a get-out clause or something? Like demon-human protected sex? Things have surely moved on since he last… did it? _Bloody **hell**. This isn’t fair. Why do you love a demon instead of a nice, normal, human man?_

‘Another nightcap?’ you ask, pretending not to care, even though inside you’re torn up scraps of paper.

‘I’d better not,’ he declines with sincere regret, rising gracefully. Then, like a suitor from a bygone era, he kneels to kiss your hand before he departs. The touch of his lips is like being too close to a flame: the heat singes your skin. ‘Good night, beautiful. And dream of angels. Not of me.’

As you replay his words, you’re already starting to regret, and consider calling him back. But you don’t, of course. Only when he’s gone do you wonder: what extraordinary colour were his eyes? And you find it impossible to recall that memory exactly, because you’re already starting to forget…


End file.
